


Play(er) Writer

by AndeliaMaddock



Category: Stardew Valley (Video Game)
Genre: Cuddles, Fire, Food, Hugs, Other, Winter, Writing, so much fire oh my god why is this happening it was horrible writing this part
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 13:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7847287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndeliaMaddock/pseuds/AndeliaMaddock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliott decides to bring a potential beau some soup to show his affections for the charismatic farmer who's on his mind consistently enough.</p><p>They aren't home.</p><p>He does a bit of light tidying up while they're away.</p><p>Elliott makes a few vital mistakes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Play(er) Writer

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: The farmer tries out writing as something to do in winter, what does Elliott think? (bonus points if the farmer writes self-insert stories involving them-self and Elliott) 
> 
> ((My first shot at a sfw fanfic after doing the nsfw ones on the other blog. Hope I did it justice! I feel more proficient at nsfw ones, but fluff is nice! --Dragon Mod))

“Hello? Are you home?” Elliott had knocked. He hadn't been raised in a barn. But when no answer, he realized it was too chilly in the snowy swirling air to stay outside. And he wasn't prepared to walk all the way home, fresh soup dish in hand.

It wouldn't be wrong to go inside, would it? He glanced over his shoulders, and eyed the barns. Just farm animals. No one to see.

Elliott knocked snow off his boot, shook it off his clothes with a hard shake of his hips and shoulders, then stepped inside. “If you're in here, I'm sorry! I don't mean to intrude, that's the last thing I'd ever intend. I just have some tom kha soup I made, and since you mentioned in a prior conversation that you've never had it before, I thought a nice warm soup would be good to share among friends.” Friends. 

Well, if they were friends, it wasn't wrong for him to be here, even without them, right? He'd caugh—found the farmer in his home unsupervised before. They'd just sat at his piano and tinked around on the keys. Elliott had heard them half a mile away with how sharp and strong they'd played. They'd laughed for a full minute when he'd come in.

If he were found doing the same thing, albeit less noisy, he could say that was what he thought their friendship was. Mutual home entry. Mutual whatever else their friendship entailed when the strange and lovely farmer began it and enfolded it into their cycle of normalcy.

Still a bit nervous, he loosened his tie, and crept into the dark kitchen. Elliott flipped on a switch, and put the soup into the fridge. “It'll be just as fine heated as it was fresh.” The home, their home, was so much more lively than his own, even with just a simple bulb brightly lit above. Though, he could stand for a more warm room.

He could just leave. If he left now, he could make it home and not have to suffer through the snow after getting warmed up.

Elliott started a fire. Yes, a nice roaring fire. And if he started the fire, he had to be there to ensure it remained safe and secure. He settled into the chair near the hearth, and scooted it a bit closer to a untidy mahogany desk.

Friends learned about friends. Friends didn't root through things, they simply explored what was out. Take this photo! Elliott lifted it up and examined. Older man, the lovely farmer themselves, and those who looked to be parents. Or perhaps older friends. He could see something of a familial look between them, but he'd have to ask.

He set the photo back down, and examined a few sheets of paper. They needed ordering better, clearly they were in disarray. While his own constantly were, he always sorely wished someone would fix them up. He would be that someone! But, what order did they need to be in?

Elliott glanced about. Still an empty house.

There was no one to know if he just looked for a number, to tell him where these story pages went. And if there wasn't a number, which no, there wasn't, then he had to read them to know how to organize, didn't he? That was simply common sense.

So Elliott read.

Four pages, and they were perfectly ordered. Nine pages, and he couldn't put it down. Twelve pages, and someone with radiant red hair and green eyes came onto the scene in a 'small town farmer's' life. Elliott knew. Twenty pages in, he clung, quite literally, to the edge of his roller seat. Forty pages in, his eyes were damp with fictional words a definitely-not-Elliott told the lovely farmer. Fifty pages in, the door opened.

Elliott spun around so hard, he kicked the desk, dropped the pages, and some shook and flapped and flew into the roaring fire, phoenixes seeking a flame.

“What're you doing?” Shock, surprise, somewhat understanding. Anger. “Elliott! That's mine! Y-you can't just...” They scrambled forward.

He lunged out of the chair, and tried to catch up the burning layers of paper, but those that fell behind the mesh screen were gone. A great deal were only hot to the touch, warm on the stone outside the shielding. But several pages, they crumpled and turned to ashes in the fire. A flicker between life on the page, and death that curled away into nothing more than soot. 

Even for the flames hard work, between Elliott and the frantic farmer, they saved a good deal of the pages. Most were salvaged from the stone heart, and the flooring.

“My Dear, I'm so, so sorry. This is all my fault.” Tears fell that he hadn't realized had formed in his rush to save the story and perhaps their faith in him. “I never meant to do this.”

“What're you even...” They couldn't look at him. Or perhaps they simply wouldn't.

He supposed he deserved that scorn. “I only meant to bring you soup. And maybe tidy up a bit. I never meant to intrude. I'm so very, very sorry. But I shouldn't have read that. It was yours. I've ruined it, and I'm sorry.” He didn't look at them either. Shame. He didn't deserve their attention. Or their very clear affection, if the story was any reflection of reality.

They scooted forward on their knees, and pulled him into a hug. “You're... just about the only person I would accept that apology from. Especially as mad as I am.”

“Well, goodness, lucky me I'm the one who gave it then, aren't I?” He grinned, a ray of sunshine behind snowy cold clouds. “I hope you can forgive me. I lost something dear to you, and I couldn't--”

“Help me write more?”

“I...”

“If you did that, then maybe it wouldn't be so bad. It's not like writers don't do lots of rewrites, right?”

The grin widened. “Would that be enough?”

“And maybe eat that soup with me? It's cold out, I wouldn't want you getting sick. You could. Stay the night?” They looked everywhere but at him, but this time it didn't seem to be a part of anger, but shyness. Something their farmer in the story characterized quite clearly.

He leaned forward, and pulled them into a tighter hug. “I would love nothing more in this world than to spend my night, writing with you, and enjoying a hearty bowl of soup.”

“I could make us some fresh bread to go with the soup too!”

“I stand corrected.” He laughed, and helped them both up from the dusty flooring. “I think I'd like that even more.”

"Maybe there are some other things we could do too, eventually."

"Well, I wouldn't get ahead of myself hoping, but yes. I'm sure there are. Many."

"Many many." They grinned up, and tucked a strand of hair behind his right ear. "But that's not until chapter 12, and I've only written to chapter 6."

"Well, we better get started writing that book, haven't we?"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Dragon mod over yonder http://stardew-nsfw-imagines.tumblr.com/ and https://stardewimagines.tumblr.com/ Send me and the other mods (midnight and scarlet) some prompts if you have an idea and wanna see it on the blog and here. ;)


End file.
